


strikhedonia

by starryeyedknight



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Romance, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 00:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30080466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryeyedknight/pseuds/starryeyedknight
Summary: The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”. Constance grows accustomed to Milady's place at court.
Relationships: Constance Bonacieux & Milady Clarick de Winter, Constance Bonacieux/Milady Clarick de Winter
Kudos: 2





	strikhedonia

_-_

_Strikhedonia_ _\- The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”._

_-_

Milady returns to Constance’s life as smooth and slick as the day she first appeared: a darkling shadow in her own parlour, like something out of the faerie tales Mama used to tell them all at bedtime. Lidded eyes, snake’s eyes, and every gaze a dart. She’s different now, of course – exile has sharpened her to the point of a knife, stripping what little softness remained from her bones, but somehow she seems fuller, plump on her own success as she dances through court. Laughs at the jests of courtiers, coos over the king’s every word. But still, the same woman through and through.

It displeases Anne, of course; she’s no idiot. ‘Where do you think she came from, this woman from the woods?’ she says one night as Constance is dressing her hair. ‘Louis speaks of her…often.’

Constance remembers a shade bearing down over her within the cellar, the edge in Milady’s voice when she spoke to her. As rich woman do to servants. Daring her to respond.

‘She’s no-one, your majesty. Put her from your thoughts. She is not worth your even considering’

Anne tsks. ‘I am the Queen of France. It is not meet that I should pass my husband’s concubine in the halls and have to feign ignorance.’

 _Louis is guarded by Aramis every day of his life_ , Constance thinks, and then hisses, horrified at her own viciousness. She pretends a hairpin has stabbed her.

It maddens d’Artagnan; well, what can you expect. Pacing the courtyard like a spurred dog – no, more of the wolf about him these days, she can’t help but notice it, leaner and hungrier, readier to strike. ‘Can you believe Louis permits her such leave?’ he grumbled, turning on his heel. ‘Allowing that woman into the palace, after all she’s done – ‘

‘I don’t know what you expect me to do about it,’ she points out. ‘What do you expect, me to turn her out-of-doors like a disgraced potboy?’

‘No. Well. I daresay you could, if you wanted to. If you got riled enough.’

She catches the grin – little-boy, unrepentant-mischief – in his voice, and shakes her head. Tenderly amused, despite herself. ‘I could do no such thing, and we both know it.’

‘I suppose not.’ D’Artagnan’s voice softens. ‘It must be difficult for you to be near her, after everything she did to you.’

 _And everything she did to_ you. _How often would you have gone with her, four times or five? Men always want what’s new and exciting, for a little time at least._ ‘There’s nothing we can do, d’Artagnan. Just ignore her.’

After that day in the garrison he had apologised, and apologised, and apologised. They’re gentle with each other now, handling glass, but sometimes Constance thinks she’d like to do it again – to spit out anger and violence until they’re both breathless, aching, panting in each other’s arms. But d’Artagnan. He’s a gentleman. Constance knows he’ll never give himself such freedom again, not with her.

She envies Milady sometimes. Imagine. Say what you want, do what you want. No regrets. Few survivors.

Think of that.

(It’s not that she would want to. Constance knows what she wants, and it isn’t this – to hurt people without question, to tear apart lives from the inside out, to look at the world as if it were something to be ridden over and conquered. But still.)

The first time she finds herself in Milady’s rooms she’s already drunk deep at dinnertime, enough to give a hazy colour to her cheeks and an indignation to her voice. ‘How do you do it?’ she demands, out of the blue, and Milady spins around from her dresser – caught off-guard, and Constance takes a savage pleasure from it. One white hand has gone to her skirts, and sweet Mother Mary, does she have a _knife?_ How gratifying, that the Cardinal’s assassin should think her worthy of such a thing.

Suitably recovered, Milady’s lips quirk in a half-smile. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Do…what it is you do,’ Constance says, ears going red like that of an embarrassed child. _Murder and lie and fuck with anyone you care to_. She can’t bring herself to say it, but Milady just laughs, rich as wine, as if she’s already heard it. When she stumbles Milady is already there before her, hands on her waist, holding her upright. ‘Without caring about anyone or anything…’

‘Would you like to find out?’

(It’s Constance who first presses her mouth to Milady’s own, after all that. Hot, damp, aching.)

(It feels exactly like she expected.)


End file.
